


That Night in the Fens

by ABTwrites



Series: Magnolia of Goodneighbor [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Clothed Sex, Desdemona and Glory friendship, F/F, Flashbacks, Lesbian Sex, Past Lives, Porn with Feelings, The Railroad (Fallout), Vaginal Fingering, canon synth Magnolia, the song Good Neighbor is actually scary if you listen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2020-12-27 00:57:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21110063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABTwrites/pseuds/ABTwrites
Summary: "Something must have happened to them that night. Electricity forming its own paths, the razor wire of adoration wrapped around them tight. Desdemona, C2-41’s first protective human connection. And C2, Magnolia, had been Desdemona’s first encounter with the true reality of her enemy."Desdemona and Magnolia collide, not for the first time.





	1. Chapter 1

Delicate hands were making their way over her ribs, tracing gentle patterns down the muscle at her sides. Magnolia’s lips were soft, so soft, so welcoming as they pressed greedily against her own and split to let her tongue dance against them.

The Alpha cursed herself viciously as she opened her mouth for her and the singer surged forward, emboldened, and tilted her head to explore her further. She shouldn’t have come here. She could’ve left after the Den, after Amari told her what she needed to tell her, she could have, should have walked right passed the Third Rail and out the front gate.

The wall behind her creaked as their bodies leaned heavily against it. Beyond the VIP door, Desdemona’s anxiety spiked as something crashed and was chased by Whitechapel shouting across the bar.

“Just rough housers,” the singer broke the kiss long enough to say so, feeling the other woman’s paranoia trigger. “Relax, honey.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Magnolia,” Desdemona growled, eyes already glassy with reluctant want.

“You can call me C2,” she breathed, dark voice wanton. “You’re the only one that gets to call me that, you know.”

Fuck. She bit her lips around a groan; that went straight down, burning trails of adrenaline along the way.

She was an asset. She was a synth. She had a life, a good life, and the Alpha being here, here, trapped between her body and the wall of the Third Rail, jeopardized all of that by default. She was being selfish. Stupid.

Even as her mind worked out all of this, her body was responding to the other woman’s touch as if her life depended on it. Every press of lips, every sting of nails, was putting her on a new high. Was she really this starved for physical contact? Had it been that long?

Old feelings, reopening scabs. C2-41 had been one of the first synths Desdemona had seen up close. She had taken her out of Institute hands herself; they’d dragged each other’s mangled bodies through Gen-1 raids and Gunner traps, limped back to Switchboard with each other’s blood on them.

\------

Desdemona, fresh into Railroad leadership, fiery and fierce and hard-headed. C2, battered and bruised but excited to be free. The redhead had never seen someone so lost look so sure of herself, of what she wanted. Even painted in blood and draped in scavenged clothes, she was remarkably beautiful. It soured Desdemona’s mind to think what use the Institute would have for making a synth so unnaturally attractive.

The Gunners had been as convenient as they were terrifying. The operators quickly became preoccupied with the ambush, too much to keep track of C2. Desdemona had been in the area recovering a dead drop when the electric snap of Fusion weapons alerted her to the chaos.

She watched as a single synth broke from the smoke and ran, inexplicably shedding her clothes as she went. Well, no, not inexplicable, though it felt that way when Desdemona watched it happen.

No doubt the Institute uniforms were equipped with tracking devices, vital monitors.

If she ditched her clothes, they might even assume she’d been killed in the fray. It was a smart move, especially from someone that had never known combat. But if she was exposed before, then now, stumbling naked and heading right into the Commons, worse things might find her than a Courser. So Desdemona followed at a swift pace, tracked her into the Fens.

She found more signs along the way. A few fusion cells, a weak trail of blood; she wasn’t too badly hurt, which must have been a miracle. Her trail veered into Swan’s Pond, and she feared the worst. Well, being killed by a Behemoth was probably better than whatever Raiders would have put her through.

Through her scope, she could see a small puddle of blood at the edge of the water, a trail of wet footprints. A stripped Gunner body that had looked like it had been dead longer than a day. Super Mutants were wandering around the perimeter of the park, oblivious as far as she could tell.

The Swan wasn’t settled into his usual spot, but instead was closer to the left side of the pond, near the blood puddle. She’d gone into the water, woken it, but was able to walk away? The wet footprints were evenly spaced and shallow; she had_ literally_ walked, not ran, and the Swan had watched her go.

It was getting dark. If this synth was as smart as she seemed, she’d have found a place nearby to settle in for the night. Desdemona crept through the surrounding buildings, anything that looked stable enough to sleep in but out of the way enough to not attract Scavvers.

She found her behind the counter of an old record shop, curled under a scavenged coat.

_How did you survive the Swan’s Pond?_

_He didn’t try to hurt me. He was nice, even let me clean up. _

_And the Super Mutants?_

_They didn’t seem to mind me at all. Saw me, sure. But nothing else._

Desdemona wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. It didn’t make any sense to her.

Their first night in the Fens, C2 sung a song Desdemona had never heard before, all hope and pain and longing. They hadn’t let her sing in the Institute; in fact, her humming had been what forced her to try to escape. They were going to reset her, or maybe shut her off. Kill her. She shouldn’t have been able to make up songs, to sing, what scientific purpose did that serve?

It was an exercise of free will, one that they had seen as a fatal flaw. Three hours before her scheduled decommissioning, she signed up for a surface mining group and fled as soon as the sun hit her face.

Back then, it had been equal parts exhilaration and dumb longing. Desdemona would’ve called herself stupid. High on adrenaline, they had sex the second night they’d been dodging fusion shots and slaloming through Gunner territory. They were both out of their element, searching for an anchor, finding it in each other’s bodies. C2 had kissed her first, clung to her, and she didn’t have enough self-control to fight it. She was beautiful, and more, she was searching for comfort.

Something must have happened to them that night. Electricity forming its own paths, the razor wire of adoration wrapped around them tight. Desdemona, C2-41’s first protective human connection. And C2, Magnolia, had been Desdemona’s first encounter with the true reality of her enemy.

C2-41, from the beginning, was charming. Funny, sweet, talented. She was so, well. So _human, _so unique.

But to the Institute, she existed to serve. Serve, or die. Those were her two options. Her arms had the needle marks of experimentation. She had nothing of her own, even her body and her voice didn’t belong to her. Serve, or die. And Desdemona couldn’t tolerate that.

C2 had refused the memory wipe. Said she wanted to help, even as Switchboard fell and agents were dying like ants in a rainstorm. She wasn’t afraid of the Institute. Desdemona had called her stupid for saying so, for staying when she had an out; that was the first time she’d seen pain on her face, and she hated herself for it.

Goodneighbor, the Third Rail, the stage, the dress, the microphone, the radio, the thousands of scavvers that knew her now, heard her everyday, the hundreds who might die for her if asked; Desdemona couldn’t have predicted any of it back then.

They had _fought _over her singing at the Rail.

_“After everything it took for you to get out, and you want to jump on a stage and scream where you are?”_

_“This is why I escaped. What’s the point of freedom if I can’t do this?”_

_“Life! To live! They will kill you if they get the chance, do you understand?”_

_“If I get to live a single second doing what I want to do, it will be a second I wouldn’t have gotten in the Institute.”_

Magnolia had come out of the Institute knowing what she wanted. To try to bare a little light, a little warmth. To heal and help, offer escape to those that felt trapped. She had always been wiser than Desdemona.

\-----------

She figured out why C2 survived the Swan, how she escaped the ambush. It was the same reason she could sing in Goodneighbor without being in danger, why the Rail was neutral territory, why her own nerves had been so calmed on the nights they’d spent together dodging enemy fire.

She was a pacifier.

Maybe it was something in how she was built, an experiment, a new kind of Synth. Something about her just made people, even beasts, be calm; she could compare being around her like a drug with no side effects. It made the Rail dreamy, and it made Magnolia into a figure of adoration. It made the Commonwealth _better, _if only a little.

The singer’s eyes were the color of storm clouds, then and now. Deep and knowing, you could tumble into her gaze and never escape. Her dress sparkled like rubies, her skin was porcelain smooth. Her voice, god her voice, every word she whispered was a splash of warm liquor, melting away her resolve.

“You’re so tense,” she said, brow bent up just slightly. Her lips traced her chin as she turned away, only opening her to a breathtaking skim of teeth against her ear. “Let me comfort you, Alpha. Let me take it all away.”

She wanted her to stay. Magnolia never chased her, but she did wait. Did she feel small compared to the weight of the Railroad, of Desdemona’s responsibilities? Undoubtably. They both lived their own lives separate from each other, had their flings, their work, the harshness of the Commonwealth.

But they kept getting caught in each other’s webs. They would collide and the flames would leap up higher every time, the wire would tighten, the pain would burn through and through.

Desdemona was the one that could never stay, and she could see the question in Magnolia’s eyes every time. But she knew, too. The Railroad needed her, every escaped synth needed her. The exchange was too great, for both of them.

So she smiled. Laughed. “You do what you need to do, honey.” Had her bedfellows when the loneliness was too sharp and the songs couldn’t numb it.

_I’m married to the stage. I hope you understand._

Desdemona had stolen something from her that night, something she couldn’t give back.

Gentle hands were snaking her scarf out from around her neck. Just walk away. Every touch jolted her with electricity, heightened her senses, awoke dormant nerve endings. Every step forward made the pain of leaving worse.

“Our fearless leader,” she whispered against her throat. She left a patch of kisses behind her ear, burning along the line of her neck. It was a ridiculous phrase, but on her tongue it sounded so genuine. “You’ve been carrying so much, haven’t you?”

That was an understatement, and they both knew it. Insistent fingers crawled up and up, touching the hem of her bra gingerly. It was like magic; she knew what to say, she knew how to soothe the wounds and wash memories out under golden words. Forget, just for now, just exist here, with her, under the dim glow of the lanterns.

Fingers traced over the fabric of her bra, passing over stiff nipples. She gasped, rasping from so little. Out of reflex, the redhead’s hand shot out to grab Magnolia’s. She was fighting herself, her instincts, her wants, her brain was the only part of her body that the singer hadn’t convinced. Selfish, she shouted inside. Selfish! Her grip tightened on Magnolia’s wrist and it halted the other woman.

“You don’t want this?”

Don’t answer that. Don’t.

Desdemona opened her eyes; she hadn’t realized she clenched them shut. Radiation green on gray as their gazes met. Clear. Kind. Too close. She almost looked sad and it killed her inside.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

And didn’t that sum up everything. What a perfect gash to put on display, a festering sore on her mind that she gave up treating long ago.

“Oh.”

Magnolia’s lips opened in a painfully empathetic frown as she leaned forward to press their foreheads together. Her hands raised to cradle the Alpha’s jaw as if she’d just told her something twisting and tragic, like she could see the years and years of sacrifice buried under that simple sentence. Scars on top of scars, was she even a person under everything?

Tender. Comforting. Loving. The gesture almost made her want to cry. What a powerful woman this was, to bring her to her knees with nothing at all. She wondered if the Institute really understood what they lost.

“Oh, baby. Of course it matters.” She swept back red hair, pressing closer. “It’s the only thing that matters.”

Desdemona faltered hard on her words.

The singer leaned close and kissed her lips again. She didn’t fight it this time. She imagined leaving, the sorrow on Magnolia’s face, the bitter and cruel cold of walking away from her warmth, of volunteering to suffer, again, and again. Couldn’t she have just this one pleasure?

Two fingers hooked into her waistband and she sucked in a rough breath.

“Take the night off with me.” The syllables curled warm and supple against her senses and she felt her mind go slack under them.

Desdemona’s hands settled tentatively on Magnolia’s waist and the singer gave a warm sigh in response.

“There you go, Alpha,” she murmured.. That pet name shouldn’t do the things it does to her when she says it; it was just her title after all, but in her mouth it was a weapon. Control tumbled away as the redhead allowed her eyes to slip downward, the resistance slipping into fresh desire.

The singer’s breasts were pressed to her own, generous cleavage spilling, teasing, enticing. Her body was so lusciously feminine, it made her desperate to touch. Magnolia swayed her hips in her grasp, slotting their bodies together.

Her dress rode up as their kiss became fervent, fingertips finding soft thighs beneath. Their teeth bumped, they exchanged chuckles and Magnolia let out a gasp as Desdemona’s strong hands palmed her ass. The sound sent shocks of hungry, molten heat down to her groin. Soft, soft, was anything in the Commonwealth as soft as Magnolia, or as warm? Her vices of cigarettes and coffee were like bandaids on gaping wounds, but this, this could make her forget every sleepless night, every lost dead drop, every scramble for cover.

She held her firmer, closer, and eased her thigh between the singer’s. And dress came up and up against the friction until it was gathered up at her waist and Desdemona couldn’t see but she could feel. Her hands, still perched, pressed her hips down. Another gasp, contact. She felt the heat of her core pressed to her clothed leg, heard another gasp, another moan.

“Touch me, Alpha.” She was pleading. She never plead to anyone. “Please touch me. I need your hands.”

Desdemona was still fighting herself, and the singer sensed it. She covered one of the hands at her waist with her own and guided it inwards, over the delicate flat of her belly and downward. Together they found the hem of her panties, soaked slit easy to parse through the thin fabric. It took her breath away.

“Feel that?” she keened, removing her fingers to let Desdemona explore for herself. She gasped, smiling, biting her lip. “Feel how wet you make me?”

“Christ, C2,” she growled, eagerly pushing the fabric aside, craving direct contact. Her folds were like velvet. Perfect, like the rest of her.

“Yes,” she moaned, burying her forehead in the redhead’s shoulder. “Don’t stop, keep it up.”

Magnolia leaned her hips forward, grinding against the contact with a chorus of soft sounds. Closer. Closer. She was so soft. Desdemona groaned as her fingertips slipped inside of her, drinking in her relieved gasp greedily. She felt like home, wet and warm and tight, safe.

C2 lived her life like Desdemona wished all synths could. Fearless, brazen, and so joyful despite the danger of just being alive out here. A literal lantern in the dark, shining with light so bright it could blind you if you looked too long. Magnolia was force of nature, a tidal wave, a spring breeze that could level a city with nothing but the softest whisper.

She pressed her thigh harder and her knuckles sunk deep and fuck, she was so tight and hot and the Alpha had forgotten how fucking good it felt to feel this woman lose herself against her. Her opposite hand squeezed Magnolia’s ass roughly, forcing her forward. The friction sucked the breath out of her and the singer tumbled into her grip, hands searching for purchase, pretty mouth open around a moan that drove Desdemona wild.

_“Right there, right there, ohh…”_

Every gasp filled her head with warm fog as Magnolia tightened around her fingers, keened, pressed them impossibly close. The Alpha tipped her temple against her, kissed the corner of her jaw, beckoned her mouth to hers. Gorgeous lips hung perpetually open in her reverie and the redhead stroked her tongue against them, slow and soft, slipping inside as her fingers sunk into her cunt to the knuckles and she must have timed it just right because a moment later the singer was crying out and jerking helplessly against her. Her back arched, hands leapt up to cling to her back as she soared and Desdemona swore she’d never seen anything so perfect in her life.

“_Alpha, Alpha_,” she chanted in her ear, voice breaking with raw pleasure, and Desdemona _hated _how much it went to her head, to her cunt, to hear her title used so erotically by the songbird. It sounded like worship, like pure and honest adoration, and even as Magnolia was coming against her it made her want to take her again, and again, to thank her, to prove her care, to worship her in turn.

With a rumbling, satisfied groan, the singer let herself sag into Desdemona’s arms. Her legs wobbled and she laughed, gentle chimes against her clavicle. The Railroad Alpha circle her waist and kept her close, seized by protectiveness, as she gasped for air.

“It’s been too long.” Magnolia’s voice was dark and smooth. She leaned up and kissed the corner of her mouth, brow bent up with exhaustion. She looked smaller in her arms now, with that tired little smile and her shaky arms curled up to the Alpha’s chest.

Words cracked through Desdemona’s lips before she could stop them.

“C2.”

The singer looked up at her, their eyes met again. Without any other words needed, Magnolia cradled her jaw as she had before and kissed her, lingering close. Desdemona’s heart tightened. In this moment, she wanted to give her everything. All of her, all of her sorrows, her joys, her affections, and she wanted take everything Magnolia could give. She wanted to carry her into another reality where they could just _be, _where there was no Institute, no Railroad, where they could exist forever within arm’s reach.

She shouldn’t have come here. For all of the pleasure, the comfort, the _love_, the pain of leaving was always ten-fold.

Magnolia’s eyes gleamed, glassy under the lantern light. Her tears were silent, they always were. She wouldn’t beg her to stay. She wouldn’t guilt her. She knew. She knew.

“Come back to me,” she whispered, smile betraying her tears. “Just, make sure you come back to me, alright?”

“I will.” But she couldn’t know for sure.

“Every song until then is for you.”

“I know.” She hears them on the radio and she can feel her heart tighten every time.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She does, and she wishes they had been ships in the night, Because Magnolia would have been better not to know her this way.


	2. Outside Perspective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast Glory study and how she sees all of this.

Glory never felt like she got along with Magnolia.

Maybe they were just too damn different. Or maybe Glory just still took aboveground too personally. Whatever it was, they didn’t see eye to eye.

Which sucked, because Des and Magnolia were close. Closer than they ought to be, but Des’s life has been so fucked since she started on the Railroad track that Glory couldn’t tell her the reality of it.

Not that Magnolia was ever mean to her. Or rude, or negative, or touchy. But Glory could tell on the few occasions they really, really talked. Magnolia was always seeing some part of her that she had far down in her soul. Everything she said was dissected, crosscut, new meanings she hadn't intended were being spooled on her fingers. 

Glory was never in the mood to be analyzed. Which meant she was never in the mood for Magnolia.

She’d gotten to the reason of it, if she was being honest. When she was clear-headed, after long quiet roads and sharpened senses, she knew. Magnolia was comfortable. In her skin, in the Commonwealth, and around humans. Being a synth.

And Glory wasn’t. Could be chalked up to her being a Heavy, having to witness firsthand all the brutality and carnage synths was targeted with out there by the Institute and common men alike. Deep in her psyche she was screaming _Fuck Humans _on a loop, with every looted dead drop and discovered narc and lost sister or brother just solidifying that sentiment. Fuck humans, all they wanted was to survive, to be treated like any other shithead out here. But that was apparently too much to ask, so fuck humans.

Sometimes she forgot that Des was a human. In the same loop of profanity, she wondered why she was even here at all, let alone standing as the single most important cog in the operation. Why the suffering? The sacrifice? For people who she could have never known, or hated just the same.

Glory liked Desdemona. A lot. She had a stick up her ass, but that stick had saved a lot of people at Switchboard and helped a lot of synths get the fuck out of the Commonwealth intact. She was a hard-ass, but she was smart, capable. Glory knew she gave her a hard time every once and a while; sometimes, she did it on purpose. When Des was looked too tired to stand but was standing anyway, when the bags under her eyes were dark as shadows; sometimes, Glory started fights on purpose, because she knew it wore her out.

Knew that when the shouting was over, Des would go to _sleep, _and stay asleep until someone shook her up. And in the morning they’d apologize, slap each other’s backs, and move on.

She suspected that the core of it, the burning singular point of her drive, was C2-41. Given name, Magnolia. Escaped synth, current resident of Goodneighbor.

And that’s why it burned her ass that they didn’t get along.

It wasn’t really a personality thing.

Or, no. Maybe it was. It was part of it, at least. And it was a beliefs thing, and a general outlook thing.

Glory lived in the catacombs. Every day of her life was fighting for synths, fighting against the Institute and the whole scum of humanity that didn’t want to just let them fucking _live. _She saw awful shit, bodies piled up, dossiers of faces and names of her sisters and brothers written down like cattle inventory.

She remembered being a slave to the Institute. Most synths didn’t. She could forgive _them_ for not understanding her own turmoil, because they found a way out and they took it. Smart. Maybe she had been stupid for staying.

But Magnolia did. Magnolia remembered, she kept all of those memories, and she still tolerated humans.

More than tolerate. She loved them. She loved the kinds of people that would dismantle her piece by piece if the Institute ever put a bounty on her head. She was trapped in this fantasy of her job, her talent, singing for her town and for the Commonwealth and being adored for it, for now. For now, yeah. Until they find out she isn’t human, like them. If you aren’t like them, they eat you alive. She’s good at playing the part. Good at pretending, keeping them comfortable.

Glory was convinced. One day, they’d get word that Magnolia had been vanished. And the talk of the town would be “She wasn’t a person. She had us all fooled. She deserved what she got.”

She loved them. And they didn’t fucking deserve any of it.

Magnolia would disappear into another tale, another issue of Publick Occurrences. Synths are everywhere, they’re in your towns, in your homes, in your beds.

But Des.

Des was human.

Des wouldn’t ever, _ever _hurt any of them.

Des reminded Glory that there were exceptions and she hated it, because it made everything so much more complicated. If Des was a synth, it’d be easy. Synths save synths, synths stick with synths, because that’s the only way to survive.

But here was Des, at the apex of the operation, keeping everybody alive and motivated. Des, falling over exhausted, a gallon of coffee a day, chewing on pen caps because she knows she smokes way too much. Sleeping in a fucking catacomb, dust in her lungs, blood in her teeth.

A goddamn human woman.

Is that why Magnolia was the way she was, too? Why she trusted so much easier than Glory did? Why she stood up on that stage for everyone to see and to hear instead of running like almost every other escapee?

Who could know. Des said something about her being a pacifier. Glory remembered vague talk of experiments going on when she was still Institute property. Domestic models. Comfort tech. Shit that made her stomach turn in hindsight. Building people with no will to give these scientist pricks a shoulder to cry on and probably a warm bed to return to.

Hated it. Hated it. How could she not?

Not that she…hated C2. She couldn’t hate a synth the way she hated a human. She just didn’t fucking understand her at all.

…

But she saw the way Desdemona relaxed when she was around. Saw how gingerly she touched her, how her lips held that gentle little smile and her eyes sparkled in a way that they couldn’t in the fluorescent light of the catacombs.

She saw sides of Des that were sealed shut and barricaded open easy as silk partitions in the Third Rail, in Magnolia’s hands.

Yeah. There it was.

Desdemona kept going for everyone, because Magnolia was out there in the Commonwealth, living the life she wanted.

To Glory, Magnolia’s death was a when, not an if.

And she was up on that stage, with her microphone and her thinly veiled Institute songs, blissfully ignorant to the shark infested room she stood in every night.

Magnolia would get herself killed, and Des would blame herself. And that might be the final flimsy pillar holding her upright.

Glory hung around one of the darker tables in the Rail, nursing a beer, waiting. Scanned the room, exchanged info with Charlie when he floated over to refill her drink. He was one of them, too. Goodneighbor worked for them in a way that Diamond City could never. People minded their own business, for the most part, and most of them were up to some sketchy shit of their own. Charlie looked out for Magnolia, at least. One Mister Handy couldn’t stop a whole mob, but he’d give them a good shake.

And, well. Glory minded her own business, too. For all she knew everybody in Goodneighbor already knew Magnolia was a synth.

No.

Not possible. She wouldn’t still be alive.

Beer was piss, but at least it was cold.

Waiting. Didn’t take a scientist to figure out what the two other women were doing in the locked VIP room. Des needed it, anyway. Maybe she’d loosen up for a while. At least enough to actually sleep tonight, enough not to suck down a pack of cigarettes on the trek home.

An hour. Des comes out, Magnolia doesn’t. Talks to Charlie, gestures at Glory from the stairs. Glory pops her neck, finishes her beer, and follows her out.

The bouncer speaks up when they open the subway door to leave, his voice chalky and dark in the way that most Ghouls’ are.

“Radstorm tonight,” he rasped, arms crossed.

“We’ll be fine, thanks,” Glory says matter-of-factly.

He grimaces, brushes a bit of dust of his shoulder. Minds his own hide after that, but looks like he wants to say something else. Desdemona lets out a long breath when they step outside.

Her eyes are glassy, tired. Had they fought?

“You good?” Glory questions.

“Yeah.” Desdemona’s voice is smaller than it ought to be. After a moment of bit back words, she speaks again. “Leaving just never gets any easier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something quick. I like this pairing a lot and would like to write more of them.

**Author's Note:**

> Alongside the porn, I've always wanted to figure out an explanation for the crazy shit Mags sometimes sings about. I also think I finally found an emotions-driven relationship for Mags, which makes me happy.
> 
> Also, since a lot of people question this on my Mags fics, she drops a synth component on death. So she is, canonically, a synth.
> 
> comments/ kudos loved, of course.


End file.
